First encounters
by LaCasta
Summary: UPDATED: Chapter 19. Crossover. Prechip, preBuffy Spike thinks that he's going to have a very easy meal when he stops at a certain Kansas farmhouse. More early adventures of Toddler!Clark. Usual disclaimer.
1. Default Chapter

A/N:  
  
Ren and Steve, this is all your fault, now I keep thinking baby thoughts. Which is scary.  
  
***  
Mrs. Ross looked, well, the way anybody would expect Pete Ross' mother to look, but to a slightly higher degree than usual.   
  
"Martha, could you keep an eye on Pete for me? The babysitter called and said that she'd be late, her mom is sick, and I have got to get going. Bethany will pick him up on her way. It won't be more than two hours, I *promise.*"  
  
"Of course. Hi, Pete."  
  
"Hi, Mrs. Kent! Mom says that you have a kid, too, but how come you weren't carrying him around in your tummy? What's his name? Or is he a girl, instead?" The last question sounded as though he were asking if she had disgusting personal habits. *Sweetie, one of these days, you won't think like that about girls.*  
  
Mrs. Ross made her escape.  
  
"No, Pete, he's a boy, and his name is Clark. His dad and I adopted him, which means that since his first mommy and daddy couldn't take care of him, they gave him to people who would love him just as much as they would."  
  
A huge frown. "How come they couldn't take care of him?"  
  
"I don't know, Pete. But they loved him enough to make sure that people who could take care of him would become his new mommy and daddy."  
  
"Can I see him?"  
  
"He's out in the barn with his dad. Let's go out there and find them, okay?" Pete grinned widely, as though that was the best idea ever. *You are going to be a real menace to female hearts when you get older.*  
  
***  
Clark was crouching in a clear imitation of Jonathan's stance, next to a wooden crate.   
  
"Very, very gentle, Clark. Like that. Just like that. They're little, you see, and so you need to touch them like you were that tiny, since you're a big boy."   
  
"Jonathan? Clark? Pete Ross is here and he'd like to meet Clark."  
  
Jonathan got up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and Clark imitated him faithfully, right down to the grin at Pete. "Hi, Pete. This is Clark."  
  
"Hi, Clark. How old are you? Are you my age? I'm three and a half."  
  
"Whoa, slow down, big guy. Clark doesn't speak much English yet."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"He's as smart as everybody who does, but he's from someplace else, where they don't speak English."  
  
"Where?"  
  
*Good question.* "We don't know."  
  
"Are you going to find out?"  
  
Clark had taken a tiny step behind Jonathan at the barrage of questions, but slipped out again, smiling widely. He turned around and reached into the box, then showed Pete the grey tabby kitten, carefully cradled in both hands.  
  
"Hey, a kitten!" Pete and Clark grinned at one another, and Pete, very carefully, scratched the tiny head with one finger. The boys giggled as the kitten yawned, and as if they'd been cued, imitated its yawn to one another simultaneously. Clark put the grey kitten back and held out a black and white one. Pete scratched its head again, but when the kitten didn't yawn, they giggled again and yawned for it.   
  
"Okay, boys, why don't you help me out by watching the kittens? And then maybe you can help mom make cookies."  
  
"No ulterior motive there, Jonathan," Martha muttered, and retreated at yet another shining smile. Jonathan couldn't manage the innocence, though. 


	2. Bad influences

A/N: I can't remember if in canon, they ever mentioned Pete's father's first name. If so, forgive inaccuracy!  
  
***  
  
"If your mother's stories are anything to go by, you had a pretty notable career as the Smallville Stripper yourself." Martha wasn't looking at Jonathan--she was folding a blanket over a sound-asleep Clark--but she could imagine his sheepish expression. "Something about a wedding comes to mind?"  
  
"It was the hottest day of a hot summer, I was bored, and I was four years old."  
  
"So, Clark's precocious then."  
  
"Teaching him to get undressed was a mistake."  
  
"He'd hardly have wanted us helping him when he was sixteen," Martha gave the dark, tousled hair a last light stroke and remembered again that as angelic as their son looked, and as much as his arrival in their lives seemed like divine providence, he could make Calvin look positively docile. At least his mother and babysitter could occasionally catch Calvin. And Hobbes was a good influence.  
  
"No wonder he's worn out, he's had a busy morning. Streaking the farmer's market would sap any kid." At least he hadn't used his speed, though it would have meant that fewer people would have witnessed Clark's public debut as a nudist, running through the crowd wearing nothing but a very big grin.   
  
"So when's Pete coming over?"  
  
"Two." Martha looked at her watch. Three hours.  
  
"You want to catch a nap, too? We'll both need all our energy."  
  
"Why don't we get in bed and see what happens?"  
  
***  
  
"Hi, Philip. Hi, Pete."   
  
"Hi, Mrs. Kent! Where's Clark?"  
  
Philip Ross met Martha's eyes as a sound that would have been a bit ostentatious for an avalanche indicated that Clark was charging down the stairs.   
  
"Hi, Clark! I brought both my fire trucks, let's go outside!" Jonathan followed the boys outside, leaving Martha with Philip.  
  
"Would you like some coffee? I definitely need some just to keep up with those kids."  
  
"I'm amazed that you still try to keep up." Pete had come by his grin honestly, as his father's showed. "I just stand around blinking most of the time and hoping that he'll slow down before I'm on Social Security."  
  
"The problem with blinking is that you miss things."  
  
"No, that's a benefit."  
  
"Not with our Clarkster. Now that he can get undressed by himself, it's become a point of honor to do so. This morning, he showed the farmer's market just what he's made of. I'd just turned my back for a moment, and when I turned around, there was a pile of clothes and a horrified crowd."  
  
"Pete hasn't gone through that phase yet."   
  
"Calm your impatience."  
  
"By the way, the Fordhams were talking about starting a play group. There are lots of people out of jobs now, and even preschool is pretty expensive. If you'd like to enroll Clark, there'd be plenty of room." He'd looked suddenly ten years older and a hundred grievances angrier as he mentioned the lost jobs. When Lionel Luthor had bought the plant, there had been an agreement that no jobs would be lost. He'd kept to the word of that; anybody who was let go was offered work in the processing area. That meant not only the decrease in salary, but no unemployment--anybody who turned down a job offer was ineligible.   
  
Martha hated saying no. She'd seen how excited Clark had been about playing with Pete, and wanted him to have the chance with other children, too. But she knew what could happen. They were still trying to teach Clark not to use his abilities, his strength or speed, and had already learned that no matter how many times he fell, he never got cut or bruised. Somebody would notice. Then the questions. And then--she didn't even want to think. She shook her head. "He's still got speech problems--we'd better hold off."  
  
Philip got up, putting down his mug. "You're probably right. Great kid, though. Anybody who can impress Pete...I've got to run now, I'll be by at three-thirty."  
  
"Take care, Philip." Martha went out back, where one high-pitched and one low-pitched voice were making "vroom vroom" noises. She laughed quietly as she saw Jonathan directing the fire truck operations as Clark and Pete enthusiastically squirted everything that he told them was on fire.   
  
"Don't even think about it," she warned him as he looked up.  
  
Pete looked at her with awed eyes. "Clark is *good* at spitting." Clark happily demonstrated.  
  
She'd better show them what a real master of the skills can do.   
  
"Wow," Pete said. "You spit even better than Clark."   
  
After all, it would be boring being the only one who wasn't a bad influence. 


	3. Fox in socks

Jonathan cuddled Clark in his lap as his sleeping son nestled happily after having another story read to him, one finger following Jonathan's faithfully as he showed Clark the words. He sometimes worried that Clark's not speaking wasn't that he was still learning English, but that it might stem from a physiological cause, that he was essentially mute. What if his people didn't speak, but communicated with some kind of telepathy, or physical movements? Was this child of theirs perhaps constantly trying to speak to them and wondering why they never talked like normal people should?   
  
At least he didn't seem traumatized by it; when they spoke to him he listened attentively and happily, and seemed quite able to communicate his needs and wants and feelings without words. Sometimes he suspected that Clark knew the effect of those huge blue-green-grey eyes and beaming grins, but at other times he was certain that his son was just as guileless as he seemed.  
  
His perfect little boy.   
  
He'd been raised in an overly devout household, where "condemn the sins of thy neighbor" ranked far higher than "love thy neighbor" as a priority, but sometimes he felt just like Joseph, feeling privileged just to raise this miraculous creature, but fearing what the future might hold in a world that all too often destroyed the divine that it thought it worshipped. Most of the time, though, he was able to relax and enjoy being a father.  
  
Clark slept with such perfect abandon, as though it were the only important thing in the world. Sometimes his face was scrunched up in concentration, as if he were making sure that he was getting this sleep thing perfectly right, other times he looked so relaxed that Jonathan felt himself want to yawn just looking at him.   
  
"Pete's coming over in a few minutes," she said quietly, and Clark snapped to wide-awake, scrambling to be let down. "Whoa, honey, he won't be here for another five minutes. His mom is dropping him off," she added, catching him by the back of his denim overalls as he rushed to the door.  
  
Clark sat cross-legged in front of the door, clearly willing it to open so that Pete would be there. He jumped up at the sound of a car pulling in. Judge Ross opened the door and carried Pete inside.  
  
"Hi, Clark! Hi, Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent! My ankle's all tied up with a really big bandaid that stretches," he informed them as his mother put him down.  
  
"Oh, what a day. *Somebody*," she sighed, putting a hand on Pete's head, "decided to try jumping down all the stairs. It's just a twist, but I've got an Ace on it, and he'd better keep pretty quiet for a couple of days."   
  
Clark, with an air of intense concentration, stared at Pete's bandaged ankle, and she chuckled, "Looks like he's trying to x-ray it with his eyes. He's going to be okay, Clark, you'll just have to play sitting-down games today." Clark climbed onto the sofa and picked up the book, fixing Jonathan with a stare that left no ambiguity about what he wanted.  
  
As Martha walked the judge back to her car, Jonathan sat down himself, gathering both boys and the book on his lap. Martha watched as he read to them, triumphantly ending, "Fox in socks, our game is done, sir, thank you for a lot of fun, sir!" Pete shouted the words back, repeating them faster and faster each time, while Clark laughed.   
  
Out of breath, he stopped, and Clark, taking the book by the edges, pointed to the picture. "Fox in *red* and *blue* socks," he said firmly, looking at Jonathan for approval.   
  
It was forthcoming. 


	4. Scary things

"This is the first time you've gone downtown, Clark," Martha repeated, as she carried the toddler out to the car. His grin was so wide she couldn't resist kissing him gain, on the tip of his nose. She opened the back seat and put him in the child seat, then reached around him to buckle him in.  
  
At which point, Clark emitted a tiny, frightened wail, scrambling out of the seat and out of the truck, knocking her over in his terrified flight. Jonathan reached down to help her up, his expression changing to bewilderment as he saw what happened, and saw how Clark was cowering against the locked front door.   
  
"Clark? Honey? It's okay, honest," she called soothingly, but as they approached, he wailed again in terror and pushed through the door, knocking it from its hinges. She and Jonathan exchanged worried looks. Clark had had eruptions before, but always over something explicable. "Clark? Nothing bad is gonna happen," Jonathan called, but he didn't return.   
  
They walked inside slowly, and found him clinging to the leg of the kitchen table. His face was red and streaked with tears, and he was whimpering to himself. "Shhhh, shhhh," Jonathan soothed, in the same voice he used when calming a frightened animal. Clark froze, but as Jonathan went on his hands and knees to crawl under the table, he darted away, running upstairs as fast as he could move.  
  
"Well, that's not doing any good," he said in resignation, getting up.   
  
"I think we're just scaring him more," she answered, sadly. Usually, their presence was all he needed to recover from his occasional nightmares or sudden breakdowns, which had in fact been less frequent each week. He'd even started coming to them, to be scooped up and cuddled, but now it seemed as though their coming closer was scaring him more. And she had no idea why.   
  
"Do we wait for him to come to us?" He didn't like the thought of that. Every instinct, every emotion was telling him to go comfort and reassure his boy, envelop him in all his love and caring until he felt safe and happy again, but he could just imagine what would happen if Clark took off and headed out of the house.  
  
They might never see him again. He could run too fast and too far. Nothing could hurt Jonathan more than the thought of somebody else finding him. Somebody who wouldn't see him as a person to be cherished, but as a phenomenon to be studied. Or a threat to be contained. Or an object to be exploited. Since his arrival, Clark wasn't the only one who had nightmares.  
  
Martha knew what he was thinking--she could see every emotion pass across his face, and they were all too familiar to her--she could associate each feeling with its accompanying mental images.  
  
"Let's just sit calmly. Wait for him to come to us." She paused, fighting to keep her voice under control. "He will," she said, but not as firmly as she had wanted to.  
  
The hours that passed were the longest ones of their lives. She and Jonathan weren't hungry, couldn't have imagined eating, but at noon she made Clark's latest favorites, baloney and peanut butter sadwiches, put them, an apple, and more cookies than usual on a plate, and carried them and a glass of milk upstairs, her heart beating in terror at the thought that he might run again. She placed them at the head of the stairs and went down again. Only the sound of continued sobbing told her he was even in the house.  
  
They turned the television to PBS, so that he'd hear the familiar sounds of Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers. Maybe that would reassure him that things were normal.   
  
She buried her face in Jonathan's shirt. "I just wish we knew what was wrong," she whispered again.  
  
He sighed. "Let's look at it again. He was fine when we told him we were taking him downtown. You said that you'd take him to the library, so we could get him some more books, and that we'd get ice cream on the way back."  
  
"And then I reminded him, no running, no lifting things," she nodded.  
  
"He was okay-"  
  
"No, he was excited," she interrupted. "Until we got to the truck, and I put him in the seat."  
  
"Did he *see* something?"  
  
"Not that I can think of." Her eyes widened. "Wait. He didn't have a problem until I started to buckle him in. What if-"  
  
There was a lot they didn't agree on, but each nearly always knew where the other's mind was going. He nearly pounded his fist on the counter. "That must be it. He must have been afraid that..." He couldn't finish.  
  
"That we were going to send him away. We said it was a place he'd never been, and then...neither of us got in, and I started to fasten him in." Her eyes filled with tears of sympathy. "Oh, poor Clark..."  
  
"Okay, I think now, we can explain."  
  
They walked up the stairs, taking it in turns to call to him. "Clark? Nobody is *ever* going to send you away. Not ever again."   
  
"You're our son, Clark. You'll always be ours. No matter where you go, we'll always be there."  
  
"Clark, baby, we love you. We'd *never* make you leave us."  
  
"I'm sorry we scared you. We were going to get in, too, and go with you downtown."  
  
They heard the sobs subside to sniffles, and a tiny, somewhat dusty head emerged from under the bed in his room. His lips were still trembling and he looked at them uncertainly. They both sat on the floor and waited for him to come to them. He finally catapulted into their arms, tears starting again as he clung to them. "Clark, you're staying with us forever," Jonathan repeated, dropping a kiss on his son's head. After a while, Clark smiled, hesitantly, burying himself deeper in their embrace.   
  
***  
I wasn't expecting this to be a traumatized!baby!Clark story, it was going to be a baby!Clark meets baby!Lana at the flower shop, but I realized just as I was getting them into the truck that they'd get him a car seat and he'd probably get scared, poor scrap. 


	5. Ice cream and other enticements

Bloop. Bloop. Bloooooop. Blooooop. BLOOP.   
  
The sounds started hesitantly at first, then grew in volume and duration. Martha realized what was going on a fraction of a second too late.  
  
"Clark, don't-" The room was transformed into a wetter place, interrupting her. "Blow in your milk," she finished, though by now the lesson was definitely to be saved for later.  
  
"Raining milk," he announced, with a tone of decided satisfaction.  
  
*Well, what can you expect when you give a superstrong toddler a glass of milk and a straw, and then turn your back?* Martha decided, as she picked up two washcloths.  
  
"Okay, Clark, help me clean up the kitchen, and then you can take the straw and some water outside." He nodded happily and scrubbed at the floor and table, occasionally even wiping up some milk as he did so. He started humming to himself, and Martha wished that she knew more about music as she listened--it was pleasant to hear, but it was strange at the same time, as though there were somehow more notes than usual, and just when she thought she picked up a pattern, it changed. She wondered what he made of their music, if it sounded strange but pleasant to him. Except, of course, when Jonathan sang to him. That was just strange. As she got onto a chair to wipe the milk off the ceiling, she couldn't help smiling to herself as she remembered Clark listening with wide eyes, and then, in a gesture of obvious sympathy, patting Jonathan's cheek the way they patted his when something wasn't quite right.   
  
***  
  
"Ready to go, sweetheart?" Clark nodded tentatively, and Martha held him tighter. They'd realized that in case of an accident, Clark was hardly likely to get hurt, anyway, so they'd taken out the seat. Jonathan opened the door and Martha, still holding Clark, got in, watching him carefully. His grip on her tightened and his eyes were watchful, but he wasn't panicking again. Martha brushed her lips against his hair, and when Jonathan got in, he chucked Clark under the chin, "You want to drive, tiger?"  
  
Clark grinned, and Martha felt him relax.  
  
After the library, they walked in the direction of the ice cream store, but Clark planted immobile feet in front of Nell Potter's flower shop, staring in the window. "Pretty," he declared, and made for the door.   
  
Jonathan and Martha followed, Jonathan muttering something about how there were plenty of flowers in the garden at home, and why was Clark so entranced by these, anyway. Just as he was drawing a breath for the next mutters, he and Martha saw the attraction.  
  
Lana was sitting at her table, squeezing foam into various shapes. She glanced up to see Clark looking at her with wide eyes and open mouth. "Pretty," he repeated.  
  
"I'm Lana," she said, and at being spoken to, Clark suddenly turned pink and stared intently at his shoes.   
  
"Hi, Lana," Martha crouched next to the table. "This is Clark."  
  
"Aunt Nell said you dopted a baby, just like she dopted me." Lana's face puckered as she finished the sentence, and Clark moved from his frozen position to sit next to her.  
  
"Don't cry," he said, so quietly they could barely hear him. "Too pretty."   
  
Lana tentatively smiled at that, and Clark, seeing her smile, began to grin. His hands moved to the buttons of his little flannel shirt, and Jonathan, recognizing the signs of Clark about to display his proudest accomplishment, grabbed his son's hand. Bending over, he reminded Clark, "We don't take our clothes off in the flower shop."  
  
"Well, not often," Nell Potter said, as she came from behind the counter with a decided smirk.   
  
"Oh, hello, Nell," Martha responded, not letting the remark or smirk fluster her. "We're just taking Clark for ice cream, could we take Lana, too?" Clark nodded an enthusiastic agreement, forgetting even his aborted stripping mission.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, but she's already had sweets today, haven't you, Lana?"  
  
"Ice cream is nice," the little girl said, wistfully, and Nell answered, "Maybe tomorrow we'll go get some," in a softer tone.   
  
Even knowing that he was about to get ice cream didn't seem to make Clark's departure from the shop any less reluctant, and as the Kents left, he was still looking back, with one final, "Pretty." 


	6. In which Clark takes a licking

A/N: Harrrumpppfft. My deep dark suspicion is that the only reason the show doesn't give us an occasional cameo from Rusty (the retriever) and Shelby is that Welling and Kreuk refuse to have anyone on the show who can out-soulful eye them. So if you find me bludgeoned to death by tubes of lip gloss, you know who did it and why.   
  
Diabetics and those with high cholesterol warned: This fic contains cheese and sugar.  
  
  
Clark ran to the window and pressed against it, then ran to Martha and, grabbing her by the hand, ran back, pressing against the window and pointing. Martha thanked heaven that Clark had learned that while he could break glass by running through it to get to something, it wasn't a good thing to do. She ruffled his hair, "Yes, that's your Daddy. Look, he sees us, let's wave to him." Clark did, but almost automatically, and Martha realized, making a mental note not to tell her husband, that Jonathan wasn't the cause of Clark's excitement. He was pulling cockleburrs out of Shelby's long collie coat, and Clark wanted to get in on the action.  
  
"Want to go meet the doggie?" Clark looked up at her, nodding enthusiastically, and pulled her towards the door. "Remember, though, just like with the kittens, very very gentle." He looked up seriously again, nodding solemnly, eyes saddened for a moment. Last Tuesday, he'd caught a grasshopper and, bringing it to show them, had squeezed too tightly. When they gently told him why it wasn't jumping any more, he had stared at them, then the squished bug, and then his own hands, with what Martha feared was far too much of a sense of guilt for a three year old. It had taken a day of reassurances to put it out of his mind, but clearly he hadn't forgotten. God knows they wanted a child that powerful to have a conscience, but there was such a thing as too much...  
  
She put it out of her mind, too, and opened the door, the knob fortunately still proving a bit too much for Clark to master. Pushing and pulling he was often too good at, but grasping and turning was still a challenge.   
  
"Wait for me, Clark," Martha laughed as he took off, and then, clearly making the effort to be good, turned to come back and walk with her to where Jonathan was waiting, the dog sprawled across his outstretched legs, all four legs splayed, eyes blissful.  
  
"Clark, this is Shelby. He's the doggie who helps me with the cows. He likes to be petted, do you want to try?" Clark grinned and squatted, clearly at a loss as to where to begin. After a moment's thought, he patted the dog's muzzle, pronouncing, "Horse nose."  
  
"Well, yes, doggies have long noses, just like horses do." Over Clark's rising giggles, he added, "Shelby's sniffing you, that's how dogs meet people. We shake hands or hug or kiss, but dogs sniff." After a leisurely inspection, Shelby unfolded what seemed like about an acre of tongue and gave Clark's face a thorough, leisurely wipe. Clark got his giggles under control enough to start reciprocating, but Martha, stifling her own laughter, explained in a shaking voice, "We don't lick the doggies. They lick us, but we don't lick them."  
  
"Why?"   
  
"Hair balls," Jonathan answered, his face quite serious. *Don't meet his eyes, don't meet his eyes, don't meet his eyes,* Martha repeated to herself. "If we lick doggies, then we get doggie hair in our tummies, and then there's no more room for cookies." From Clark's expression, she could tell this was quite a convincing argument; he kept his mouth clamped firmly shut as he buried his face and hands in the dog's long fur. 


	7. Red and blue make

"I'll show you something cool, Clark," Pete offered, reaching for the yellow and blue crayons. The boys were lying on their stomachs, coloring. "See, if you color yellow, and then color blue on top of the yellow, you get green."   
  
"How?" Clark was staring at the crayons and at the duckling Pete had just colored.   
  
"Dunno. Just the way crayons are, I guess." Martha fortunately didn't have to hide her grin at his worldly-wise tone, as he was reveling in Clark's amazement. "Hey, it stopped raining, can we go out again, Mrs. Kent?"  
  
"Okay, but no more mud puddles, guys." Clark nodded solemnly, Pete cheerfully. Neither of them had quite understood why it was a bad thing to come indoors again, dripping mud and running around, but had philosophically put down the Kents' objections to another adult weirdness. Jonathan had finally taken them outside and stood them under the hose, so at least all they dripped on their return to the house was water.  
  
Pete headed directly to the barn, and Clark and Martha followed. "Whatcha doing, Mr. Kent?"   
  
"Milking the cow. Usually, a machine does it, but Maggie hurt her leg so it's easier if I do it by hand." Clark had seen this before, but Pete was fascinated.   
  
"I thought you put milk in bottles," he commented, after a few minutes.   
  
"No, first a bucket, then we heat it to get rid of any germs, and then we put it in bottles." Maggie was the best-natured of the herd and had already gotten used to Clark. "Do you want to try? Pete, you sit on this side here, Clark, you go around to that side. Okay, now take the part that's hanging down, and squeeze it from the top down."  
  
"It feels like a water balloon."   
  
"You're right, Pete, it does. There, you got it, just like that." Pete grinned hugely as a stream of milk squirted from the teat into the bucket.   
  
Several loud meows demanded attention as Jane Austen, Emily Dickinson, and their assorted offspring, attracted by the smell of the milk, approached. "Watch this, guys," Jonathan whispered. Without missing a stroke of the two teats he was holding, he aimed for Emily, the grey tabby, who opened her mouth expectantly. A stream of milk shot right in, and Jane, whose black and white pattern made her a natural for the barn, let out a raucous feline screech for her turn. The kittens, realizing they were missing on something, began to clamor, but hadn't quite understood how to open their mouths to catch the treat and were soon milk-spattered, occasionally sneezing in between licking themselves and one another.   
  
Clark surreptitiously opened his own mouth and squeezed, then sputtered. "It's warm," he complained.   
  
"Well, yes, it's warm when it comes out of the cow. But people shouldn't drink it right from the cow, it's not been cleaned up yet."  
  
"But cats can?" He sounded worried.  
  
"Cats can, just fine."   
  
"That's probably your dad now, Pete," Martha said, hearing the sound of a car pulling up the drive. Pete tore out the door, then re-appeared, leading his father.  
  
"And see, that's where milk really comes from," he finished explaining.   
  
His father nodded as if finally enlightened. "I always wondered, since orange juice comes from oranges, and apple juice from apples, but you can't go to the store and buy milk fruit to squeeze."  
  
"Cows are milk fruit," Pete added, firmly. As the youngest in his family, he wasn't often in the position of informing others, and enjoyed the opportunity when it came.   
  
"That's good to know. We'd better go pick Mom up now."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Kent and Mrs. Kent, see you later, Clark!" Pete was still explaining more of milk production as he and his father left.   
  
Back in the house, Clark returned to the living room, where he lay on his stomach again. He colored a house blue, and the house next to it, red. "Blue and red make..." He frowned. "Mommy, what's this color?"  
  
"That's purple, Clark. Blue and red make purple." 


	8. Not a kitty

Martha heard Jonathan's voice coming from near the barn.  
  
"Clark, no, that's not a kitty."   
  
She couldn't make out the words of Clark's response but the tone was stubborn.  
  
"I don't think it wants to be picked up."   
  
Another unintelligible response.  
  
"Clark, put it down."  
  
Definitely stubborn answer.  
  
"I said, young man, put that down."   
  
Martha decided to play UN and headed outside. Clark was holding something and staring defiantly at Jonathan. "Goes in the barn. Nice kitty."   
  
"It's not a kitty and I told you to put it down." The toddler retreated, though still facing Jonathan with a stubborn pout. His arms tightened across his chest and his burden, at which a particularly acrid stench filled the air. Jonathan grimaced and turned away and Clark's eyes widened. He let go of the creature he'd been holding and as she rather reluctantly continued to approach, Martha watched a very indignant animal stalk majestically back to the cornfield.  
  
"Kitty doesn't smell good." Clark sulked, wrinkling his nose.   
  
"It's not a kitty, it's a skunk. Skunks make things smell bad. That's why I told you to put it down." Jonathan was definitely keeping his distance from Clark.  
  
Martha had a sneaking suspicion that they didn't have any tomato juice in the house. 


	9. Flying

"Okay, Clark, I think it's just about ready." Jonathan pulled at the tire again but neither the rope nor the branch showed any signs of giving.   
  
Clark had been so eager to help that hanging the tire swing took about four times as long as it would have without him and was giggling with excitement as he sat in it and Jonathan came behind him to push.   
  
"Flying!" Clark yelled at the top of his lungs, "Flying!" Jonathan pushed harder on each swing, and Clark wriggled with excitement as each one sent him higher.  
  
Gradually, he slowed down, and told Clark, "My arms need a rest now." He sat on the ground and Clark sat next to him. "Let's watch bugs."   
  
This was one of Clark's favorites, watching just a few inches of soil and the different insects there. He'd watch intently, reporting on what he found. "There's an ant, and it's got a seed. It's taking it home for lunch. And there's a katydid, it's green."   
  
"It sure is."   
  
"And that's a roly-poly, it just uncurled."   
  
"Look, Clark, there's a ladybug." Clark's mouth opened as he stared at the insect. "Can you tell me how many dots it has on its back?"  
  
Clark concentrated, "Three?"  
  
"That's right son, it's got three dots on its back. Look, it's going to fly away now."  
  
"It doesn't have wings."  
  
"It does, but it keeps them hidden. See?" Clark was practically nose to nose with the ladybug as he watched the armored shell on its back lift to reveal its tiny wings. "There it goes."   
  
"Bye-bye, ladybug." Clark turned to Jonathan again. "Fly again?"  
  
"Let me give my arms a rest for a couple more minutes."   
  
"No, you fly, I push."   
  
Jonathan managed not to laugh. From anybody but their son, it would have been ridiculous, but Clark was perfectly capable of it. When Clark started to grin, Jonathan gave in. "All right, just a little." Clark scrambled up and stationed himself behind the tire. Jonathan sat, tucked his legs up so they wouldn't brush the ground, and Clark gave him the first push.  
  
"Daddy's flying!"   
  
Martha rounded the corner just then, carrying the kid that they'd been bottle-feeding, since its mother had milk only for one and had given birth to twins. She waved absently with her free hand, then stopped and looked again in disbelief.   
  
Clark stopped pushing and ran over to her. "Mommy's turn!" As Jonathan untangled himself and got out, Clark led her eagerly. "I flew and then Daddy flew and now Mommy gets to fly." Good thing, Jonathan mused, that Clark made it clear that he'd had the first go, or Martha would never let him forget it. 


	10. I will not eat them, Sam I am!

If there was a market for stubbornly pouting toddlers, Clark would be a model. No, make that a supermodel. He had all the elements exactly right: pursed mouth, arms folded, entire body registering the "give me liberty or give me death" resistance of a very small young man who has no intention of doing something that unreasonable parents are demanding.  
  
There was also a spoon impaled in the opposite wall.  
  
"I said, Clark, that's enough." Martha had decided to settle the first issue first, the silverware hurling second. "Your father and I want you to eat them and you are going to eat them."  
  
"Yucky."  
  
"No, peas are not yucky, they taste good and they're good for you. You haven't even tasted one."  
  
"Don't want to."  
  
Martha suspected that this was really because Clark had found the peas too much fun to play with. And since none of this other toys tasted good, peas couldn't taste good either. That was the problem with kids; they were illogical in completely logical ways. Her eyes signaled an "Over to you" to Jonathan, who had retired defeated from the first round but seemed rested and ready to come back into the arena.  
  
Her husband scooped up some of the offending spheres in a spoon. "Open wide, son, here they come." Clark clamped his lips tightly and shook his head until it was almost a blur. Martha was an instant too late in realizing that he was carrying out a second tactic. A tiny hand snaked up from underneath the table and swept all the remaining peas against the same wall where the spoon was embedded up to the last inch of its handle.  
  
"We do *not* throw food, Clark." Martha was doing everything to avoid laughing at the way that Clark was trying to keep his mouth as firmly shut as before but also to grin at his own clever strategy, and was relieved that she was still able to sound stern.   
  
For an instant, Clark looked abashed and then glanced up through his lashes at his parents. "Don't want to," he repeated, but in a more subdued voice.  
  
"In this house, we taste things before we decide whether we like them or not," Jonathan answered, bringing the spoon back to Clark's mouth.  
  
He opened it the tiniest possible crack that would admit the spoon and Martha breathed a sigh of relief as, with an exaggerated disgust, Clark chewed the mouthful, as though he was trying to keep the peas from contaminating his teeth or tongue.   
  
She and Jonathan caught the return of the grin just a fraction of a second too late. With a delighted "ffffffffffffffppppppppppppptttttttttttt," Clark craned his head back as far as it could go and spurted the green mush towards the ceiling.   
  
Apparently he felt he'd won the moral victory, as he placidly listened to their rebukes like a gracious diplotmat going through a tedious formality, and even accepted a timeout without the usual aggrieved look and stomping over to the chair. But he was generous in victory; when the five minutes were over, he sidled back for the usual quick hugs that he always wanted after a time out.  
  
After he went up to his room, Martha opened the freezer and counted the remaining containers. "Five down, five to go," she muttered. "He's got to actually swallow some sometime, right?" 


	11. Bless you my child

Jonathan lifted his hand from his face to see a very worried looking Clark staring up at him. "Daddy?"   
  
"It's okay, Clark, I was just sneezing."   
  
"Sneezing?" Clark must have thought the word sounded funny, since he giggled. Well, you could hardly blame him, it does sound pretty silly, Jonathan decided. "What's sneezing?"  
  
"When things go in your nose, sometimes your nose sneezes, to blow them back out."  
  
"No fingers in noses!" Clark responded, sternly.   
  
"That's right, Clark. But this was some dust that had gotten into my nose. You know how some people laugh when other people tickle them?" Clark nodded. "Sneezing is the way your nose laughs when something tickles it."   
  
"Sneezing's fun?"  
  
Bad comparison, Jonathan told himself. Clark had gotten that "I'm missing out on something" pout that he occasionally got when Martha or Jonathan explained human functions that he didn't seem to have. "No, it just sounds funny."   
  
"Can I sneeze?"  
  
"Well, you haven't yet, but maybe it's something you'll do when you get bigger."   
  
Clark nodded, relatively satisfied, and then the topic changed to the grossness of slugs.   
  
****  
  
Phil Ross had warned them, "Nap time isn't for them, it's for *you.*" Well, he should know, he was Pete's father. Fortunately, Clark was still willing to nap and sometimes cooperated by lying down, wherever he was, the moment somebody announced that it was nap time, so that they'd have to carry him up. Jonathan deposited Clark on his bed and reminded him, "No, you snore *after* you fall asleep."  
  
He could deal just fine with remembering the time that Clark had run into their bedroom, wanting to know what was wrong, why Daddy was making that noise. He didn't even mind that Clark sometimes tried to snore, just like Daddy. What he still held a grudge about was Martha's remembering it and the way she didn't try hard to repress her laughter when she remembered it.   
  
He gave Clark another quick squeeze and went back downstairs. With luck, maybe it would be a couple of hours, since sometimes after he woke up, Clark would quietly play by himself or, more often lately, lie thinking. He and Martha sometimes wondered if Clark had to unlearn things from his home world or his own species, since he certainly seemed to spend a lot of time "just thinking."   
  
Who knows, maybe they could even finish a video. He and Martha both had a thing for the really cheesy low-budget creature horror films, the kind where they could debate over whether the mutated dinosaur crushing cities under its feet was a plastic model or if somebody really did tape green macaroni on an iguana. Martha still jumped at the "scary" bits and that was as good an excuse as any for them to get a bit closer. Having Clark asking what was happening in the movie or what they themselves were doing just didn't bring the same kinds of satisfaction.   
  
A very satisfying hour and a half passed and the mutated dinosaur had just been blown up when they heard the thunk that announced that Clark had jumped off the bed. Jonathan kept an ear open for the sound of his coming downstairs, but the movie drew to its ending, and he and Martha had to discuss whether the dinosaur eggs were really red grapes.   
  
There was an unfamiliar sound, a bump, then the sound of triumphant Clark giggling. After a moment, Jonathan grinned. "I got it, he's trying to sneeze."   
  
"Then what's the bump?"  
  
They exchanged a look that said "better find out" and headed upstairs.   
  
"Look at me sneeze!" Clark sat on the floor, legs crossed, an expression of intense concentration on his face. He took a deep breath and then exploded it through his nose. The force was enough to just barely lift him off the ground.   
  
Okay, another thing to tell Clark not to do around other people. But in the meantime, "Gesundheit." If Clark thought the word "sneeze" was funny, there were plenty more words where that came from. 


	12. A whole new way to look

"I think he has a future in sales," Martha commented, noticing the effect that Clark's big grin had on the shoppers at the Farmer's Market, particularly when he held out a bunch of carrots or ear of corn to entice somebody into buying. The effect wasn't even diminished when he took a bite out of one of the carrots and held out the bunch again, repeating his invitation.  
  
The punk look was late and diluted by the time it got to Smallville, but one teen couple had enthusiastically adopted it. As they came by, holding hands, Perry with a navy mohawk, Zoe with green spikes, Clark was fascinated. "Mama, look!"  
  
"Hi, big fella," Zoe answered, crouching down to his level.   
  
"Green!"  
  
"Yes, that's right, my hair is green. What color's your hair?"  
  
Clark looked pensive for a moment, then grinned again. "Red!" he answered, practically rolling on the ground with giggles.   
  
"I think that you're kidding me, pal."  
  
"Blue!"   
  
"*I* think your hair is a very handsome black."   
  
Martha got caught up in totaling an order and missed the next part of the conversation, but when she looked over, Clark was nodding emphatically and had scrambled onto Zoe's lap so he could touch her hair.   
  
"It wouldn't be like that forever, you know." Just as Martha was turning to another customer, Zoe stood up, Clark balanced on her hip. "Mrs. Kent, if it's okay with you? We'll just go to my sister's booth."   
  
"Of course, Zoe." Zoe's sister Sandra mostly made jewelry, but she also sewed puppets and stuffed animals. Clark would probably come back in love. "Just no snacks, okay?"   
  
"Thanks, Mrs. Kent!" Clark giggled as Zoe put him back down and took one of his hands, and he eagerly held up his free hand to Perry, who took it silently. Martha tried to remember the last time she'd actually heard him say anything and couldn't recall. Supposed to be one of the brightest students the high school had ever had, though, and she thought that she remembered hearing that he'd been published in a few magazines already, not just student ones. Mr. White had told her that he hoped Perry wasn't saving it all up for one long marathon conversation.   
  
Jonathan came back from the truck, carrying more boxes, by the time she'd finished checking to see that they had enough small change or needed to get more. "Where's the boss?"  
  
"Zoe took him over to Sandra's booth."  
  
"Robbing us of our best salesman, huh?" If it weren't for Clark's coloring, people might have thought that he was their biological son, just from her husband's own grin.  
  
About ten minutes had passed and the crowd started to thin, drifting back towards cars and trucks. Jonathan finished putting a customer's apples into a bag and after handing it to her, froze. "Martha?"   
  
"Wha-" Her hand flew to her mouth. Zoe and Perry were coming back, Clark between them, grinning broadly. As they got closer, Clark shouted, excitedly, "Look, Mama!"   
  
Well, that'd teach her not to listen very carefully before giving permission for anything. Clark's hair was now gelled into five proud spikes. 


	13. Looking back

"Whoa there, Houdini!" Gabe Sullivan grabbed his daughter by the handles, or, as the clothing manufacturers would have called them, the backs of her red denim overalls. So far, she'd made at least eight breaks for freedom, but this was the second time she'd headed, with a determined if somewhat wobbly stride, to the coffee house and he could just imagine what might happen if she scored a sample of espresso. She'd probably figure out a way to do it, too.  
  
He suspected that he was secretly a small-town person. He liked seeing open parking spaces in front of stores, liked seeing wheat fields just a bit away, and liked seeing old trucks hauling produce and bales of hay. Chloe seemed to be finding a lot to like, too. He knew that it was pretty crazy of him to come check the town out even before the jobs at the new plant were posted, but it just felt right to be here. And maybe in a small town, things would work out a bit better with...no, he wasn't going to think about that, not now. Chloe was sometimes just too perceptive of moods and if there was one thing he wanted, it was for them to resolve whatever the problem was without getting their baby involved or even aware.   
  
"Do you see the horsey, sweetheart?" He scooped her up onto his shoulders so she could see the horse hitched to a tree next to a leather goods shop. "Look at the big horsey." He guessed she wasn't impressed since after just a few seconds, she was wriggling to get down.  
  
She pulled him in the direction of another store, this one a flower shop. "You know, you're going to stretch that arm so long that you'll have to fold it up to go to bed at night." She looked up at him with a puzzled air for a second, and then burst out into a brilliant grin. "That's my gorgeous little girl. So, if Daddy gets a job here, would you like that, Chloe-oey-oey-oey?"   
  
She lost interest in the display in the flower shop window and looked wide-eyed at a truck that pulled up. A tall, blond man jumped out and opened the door for a red-haired woman who was holding a toddler about Chloe's age. They each took one of his hands and started in their direction, and Chloe ran towards them.   
  
The woman laughed indulgently and the man looked amused as she pulled her latest favorite toy, a plastic microphone, from her pocket and held it in front of the boy, who looked bashful. "I'm C'oe Sulliban and this is Channel Five News. What's your name?"   
  
"Clark, you're being interviewed," the woman said, still laughing. "Can you tell her your name?" After a few moments, the boy lost his deer-in-the-headlights look and grinned. "I'm Clark Kent and I help my mommy and daddy on the farm."   
  
"That's right, you're a big help, aren't you?" Chloe seemed to lose interest as the boy's father ruffled his hair and she looked into the window of a small department store. The parents exchanged smiles and Gabe and Chloe continued their way back to the car.   
  
Just as he opened the door and was ready to scoop her inside, she turned back to look at the boy and his family as they walked off. He chuckled to himself as he saw, only a few seconds later, the boy turn around and look back, too. 


	14. Good Samaritan

"Can we go faster, Daddy?"  
  
"No, Clark, we can't. Not here, because the speed limit is what tells us how fast we can drive, and here the speed limit is 35."   
  
He considered this for a moment, lips pursed in concentration. "35 whats?"  
  
"35 miles an hour."   
  
"Not fast," he answered, with a pout.   
  
"No, it's not very fast, but it's safe. Safety comes first," Jonathan reminded him, firmly. He and Martha had to take Clark everywhere with them if they both had to be out, since there was no way to find a babysitter who wouldn't notice his abilities. It had been a long day and Clark had reached the cranky phase of tired.   
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because people might get hurt when safety doesn't come first."   
  
"Why?"   
  
Explaining this to a child who seemingly couldn't be hurt wasn't something he ever expected to do, but then Clark had brought a lot of things like that with him. "There might be an accident."  
  
"What's an accident?" Clark frowned with the effort of getting the word out.   
  
"It's like when somebody falls down and gets a bruise. Like Pete did on the stairs when he wore that bandage, remember, or when Ammie stepped on her piglet without meaning to."   
  
"I don't bruise" was what Clark intended to say, but "r"s weren't his best consonant and Jonathan had to fight not to laugh.   
  
"No, you're a very lucky Clark. You don't bruise but other people and animals do, and that's why we have to be so careful with them."   
  
He instinctively threw his arm across Clark as he slammed on the brakes. As they had turned the sharp curve, something small had run across the street and Jonathan winced as he heard the thud.   
  
Clark launched himself through the truck window, head first, before Jonathan could even think to stop him. By the time he pulled over, knowing that drivers often took the curve too fast and thanking all their lucky stars that nobody had seen, he was crouched over something Jonathan couldn't make out in the grass along the roadside.  
  
*Damn then*, he said furiously to himself, as he got closer and saw that it was a puppy. For some reason, selfish morons thought that dumping them in the countryside was a way to get rid of pets who had outlived their novelty value or whose owners had realized that taking care of an animal is actually a responsibility. Clark was looking at it helplessly, shards of glass still clinging in his hair, and tentatively petting its head. "Daddy, do something!" he pleaded, with absolute conviction that there was something that could be done.  
  
Well, that meant that he had to do something. It was hard to see how badly hurt it was, with its dirty coat and reddish-brown fur. He was pretty sure that he'd struck it on the back half, from the little he'd seen, so it probably was safe to give the poor thing some water. He went back into the truck and got the water they kept for the radiator but couldn't find anything to use as a bowl. "Clark, put your hands together really really tightly, like this." He held his own out, cupped, and poured some of the water. With luck, it wouldn't flow through Clark's fingers, he'd hoped, and sure enough, it didn't. "Hold it so the doggie can drink if he wants to." A shaky smile crossed Clark's face as the dog lapped it and Jonathan poured some more.  
  
"There you go, boy," he soothed as he looked more closely. As he'd suspected, it looked like he'd hit the dog's back leg, and he cautiously ran a finger down the thigh. An injured animal often lashes out when anybody approaches or touches it, but this one was either too far gone or wasn't in too much pain that it couldn't trust them, and from the way that it was drinking, he had a pretty good hope that it was the latter.   
  
"Okay, Clark, I can't fix him, but we can take him to the vet, who will be able to fix him." The light that crossed Clark's face made him add, hastily, "If anybody can." Clark nodded contentedly and Jonathan carefully scooped the dog up. He put it on the driver's seat, got Clark in the other side, and saying, "There, very gently, just enough that you won't drop him," passed the dog to him before getting in himself.  
  
*Vet's bills* he heard part of himself groaning, but aside from being the right thing to do no matter whether or not anybody was there, he knew how careful he and Martha had to be in what their actions taught Clark. *We'll figure something out,* he added, as, to his astonishment, he saw the tip of the dog's tail twitch, as if it were trying to give them a tiny wag. 


	15. Don't sit on your son's friends

"That's Big Googa's seat!"   
  
Jonathan moved about a foot to the right and started to sit, and this time, Clark didn't indignantly warn him that he was about to trespass upon or crush any of Clark's friends.   
  
"I don't think I've met Big Googa yet," he answered, cautiously.  
  
"Course not. Big Googa's *invisible.*"   
  
"How come you can see him then?"  
  
"I'm his friend." After a pause, he added, "Big Googa can fly."  
  
"Does he have wings like a bird or like a plane?"  
  
Clark considered for an instant. "No, he says that he just flies."  
  
"Does he like to fly?"  
  
"Uhm hmm. He says he'll teach me. He can do lots of stuff."  
  
"Like what?"   
  
"He can climb the tree faster than I can and sometimes he picks up the house. He puts it back, though."  
  
"That's good."  
  
"He doesn't have to eat peas if he doesn't want to." Jonathan just nodded and Clark, realizing that this hadn't worked, went on. "He and Manoo are cousins."   
  
"So is he a penguin, too?"  
  
"Not a penguin cousin, a cousin cousin."  
  
"Oh, right."  
  
"When Manoo takes a really big breath," Clark paused to demonstrate, noisily, "She sounds like the vacuum. That's how she cleans her room."   
  
Jonathan just hoped that these friends really were imaginary. Sometimes, he had mental images of what it would be like if they were really creatures that had come with Clark.   
  
The book about encouraging children's imagination didn't have a section of special considerations about alien children. He figured, though, they were handling it pretty well.   
  
But he'd still be extra careful when Clark warned him not to sit or step on a friend.  
  
Just in case. 


	16. Keep out of reach of children Especially...

As Martha came into the house, she saw the small pile--a red shirt, jeans, tiny boxers, socks--but she didn't see their owner anywhere around. "The Smallville Stripper strikes again," she muttered, listening for the pounding footsteps that might indicate her son's currently very naked whereabouts.  
  
The next sight, innocuous enough to an ordinary observer, sent a chill through her blood. A mug with cow spots. At toddler height on a low table. Empty, except for a thin brown ring at the very bottom. "Jonathan's coffee. He got Jonathan's coffee."  
  
***  
  
Jonathan already knew this. At least, they'd succeeded in making sure that Clark knew not to run at full speed anywhere except on the farm, and he could occasionally make out a moving streak along the perimeter and hear an excited, "Whee!"  
  
His life had shrunk to two small wishes: that Clark would be decaffeinated by the time that Martha got home and that nobody notice, except for the cows, who already had, and judging from their reactions, had never had a toddler play leapfrog over them before.  
  
Then he heard Martha calling, "Clark!"   
  
***  
  
"I didn't even realize he had it until he'd already finished it!"  
  
Martha could believe it all too well. Clark was good about obeying rules and fortunately, didn't hunt for loopholes the way that Pete did, but he had a talent, no, make that a genius, for ending up in situations where there weren't any rules. He'd never shown any interest in coffee before and so, rather than create forbidden fruit, they'd never told him not to drink it. But then Jonathan had left a full mug on the table and next thing he knew, Clark had reached for it, carried it into the living room, and gulped it down.  
  
"I've counted about thirty laps," she commented, deciding not to push the guilt, at least not until some occasion when she might need to.  
  
"I stopped counting before you came back. Around 200." He shook his head.   
  
She and Jonathan had sat up late one night, trying to develop a clear sense of where the boundaries of exploiting Clark's abilities were, making sure that he knew to use them appropriately. Given his nature, it was beautifully clear, once they saw it: Have him do the normal chores any farm boy would do and his own instincts to help would lead him to offer to do anything else he felt was within his capabilities.  
  
She wondered if, once he really understood what the windmill was and what it did, he'd offer to drink a cup of coffee and hitch himself to it. Ethically, she didn't like the idea one bit--it felt too much like using him, even if he did offer--but that couldn't keep her from snickering at the reaction of the local utilities department when they saw that instead of paying about two dollars a month for the extra energy the Kent farm added to the grid, they had to pay hundreds or thousands since all of a sudden, it was providing enough power for all Smallville. Maybe for all Metropolis.  
  
"Fifty-two. I think he's slowing down."  
  
***  
  
After another half-hour, it was apparent that Clark was slowing down. Still going too quickly to hear them, she suspected, but nonetheless, slowing down.   
  
Forty-five minutes after that, she tried calling to him, but the wind he was creating still must have been blowing too fast.  
  
She wanted a cup of coffee herself--just watching him was exhausting.  
  
***  
  
"Clark!" By mid-afternoon, his path had actually worn a significant trench around the farm and as he slowed, they could occasionally see him a bit more clearly. Jonathan wasn't sure he wanted to; it was disconcerting to see what looked like a disembodied head running around the farm at warp speed.  
  
He'd finally slowed down enough to hear them and leaped from the trench to come over to them.   
  
Clark hadn't quite mastered the art of slowing down or stopping from a fast run, and often stumbled over his own feet or wasn't able to coordinate them, sending him into a fall that would have seriously injured any other child, but most of the time, just made him giggle, except when he was in a mood to be frustrated.  
  
Coffee, having finally watched enough baseball on television, or perhaps a growing inborn understanding of his body must have given him a new idea. About fifty feet away, he jumped into the air, folded himself in a v-shape with his legs up, and landed on his bottom, skidding to a halt right at their feet.  
  
Jonathan couldn't resist it. "Safe!" He shouted, spreading his arms wide. 


	17. Homecoming

"Want to go get the poor doggie, now that he's all better?" Clark grinned, and at a loss for words, grabbed Martha's leg and squeezed. The vet had let them come visit the recovering animal, who was growing fast, and Clark had already named him Rusty.   
  
There had been a debate when Jonathan and he came back from one visit and Jonathan told him to go wash his hands, Clark responding that Rusty had already washed them for him. That aside, Clark had agreed solemnly to all the new responsibilities that would come with having a dog of his very own: feeding him and making sure he always had water, taking him outside when needed, and cleaning up any accidents.   
  
Jonathan watched, grinning, as they left. Before taking Clark to the vet to visit that first time, he'd spelled out a full case for adopting the dog. It would teach Clark responsibility, Clark had fully developed a sense of how much an animal or person could be hugged without hurting it, and some of the dog's tendons might not heal completely, so Clark would learn more about how to slow down to accommodate somebody moving slower, and Clark had already become attached to it, from the first time he laid eyes on it. Martha listened with an abstracted, pondering expression on her face, and then said that of course, she agreed entirely, and had from the words, "I think it would be a good idea." It had just been too much to resist, letting Jonathan marshall out the points like an attorney.  
  
He'd actually left one out. A boy just plain shouldn't grow up without a dog any more than parents should have to go through parenting without giving their boy a dog. That was simple fact.  
  
Reminding himself that a working farmer doesn't have time to sit around daydreaming, he started that day's projects, sawing down unproductive branches on the fruit trees and chopping them to size for the fireplace. Apple wood had the perfect scent when it burned, warm and sweet but with just a hint of a tang to it. The leaves he added to the compost pile, together with most of the breakfast scraps. As he finished fixing the hole in the big feed bucket, he heard the truck pull in.   
  
Clark was carrying the puppy, who was wriggling and licking any bare skin he found. Martha trailed after them, eyes glinting in amusement. "I'll show him where his dishes are and let him get used to the house," Clark said, clearly having memorized the vet's instructions, right down to the intonation, as he waited for Martha to open the screen door.  
  
Jonathan shook his head, remembering the dogs from his own childhood. If he thought enough, as he went through the rest of the morning's tasks, there wasn't a corner of the farm that didn't have some memory of games or work together.  
  
When he went inside, Martha greeted him with a finger over her lips, and pointed upstairs. He tiptoed up the stairs and looked in Clark's bedroom. Rusty was sprawled, sound asleep, on the bed with the air of a dog who knows that he's at home, and Clark was just as deeply asleep, his head pillowed on the dog's side. 


	18. A man's got to doand so does an editor

Jonathan rubbed a hand along his cheek and frowned thoughtfully. "I think so, what about you, Clark?"  
  
Clark solemnly rubbed his own hand down his father's jawline and nodded agreement.   
  
"Okay, then, I definitely need a shave."   
  
As Clark watched, perched on the toilet tank, Jonathan opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out his father's old-fashioned shaving gear. The only thing he'd ever changed was a safety blade instead of a straight-edge, now that there was a toddler in the house. He'd made that decision reluctantly, as it was more a matter of principle than necessity, since Clark could hardly hurt himself with it, but he finally decided that he had to set the safety first example.  
  
He daubed on the cream and had to admit that he was adding artistic flourishes, given his intent audience, with each stroke of the razor along his skin and then swishing it in the bowl to clean off the hairs and old cream.   
  
The ritual wasn't quite finished, though, even when he rinsed his face. Putting a hand under Clark's chin, he examined the toddler's face, then gravely rubbed a hand along Clark's face. "Maybe not today, son, for a full shave." He waited for Clark's consideration of the question and nod. "Just a brushing should take care of it." He took out the second, dry brush, and to Clark's giggles, tickled every inch of his face with it, giving extra attention to his nose and under his chin.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Martha heard a car pull up and groaned to herself. Clark had been particularly energetic that morning and even her efforts, combined with Jonathan's, hadn't been enough to tire him out. When she heard the knock, she called, "Hi, Perry, come on in. We're running a bit late here."  
  
The taciturn young man came in, nodded a hello, and then grinned at Clark, who came running in, recognizing his new friend from the farmer's market. "Pointy hair?" Perry hauled him up so he could touch the gelled spikes.   
  
After he'd inspected Perry's hair, Clark made his latest demand of any grownup he encountered, "Tell me a story?" Martha could only turn to hide her smile, since the boy who was considered the most talented writer Smallville High had seen in years was rarely heard to utter more than five words at a time in public. He kept below that record as he answered, "You tell me one."  
  
Clark, struck by this new idea, frowned in concentration and then began to tell Perry about a dog named Rusty who had extra-special magical powers, while Martha finished packing the produce she'd enlisted Perry to help her deliver.   
  
She and Clark finished at the same time, and Perry delivered his verdict. "You tell good stories."  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
"Clark?" Jonathan didn't even bother looking in the house after that one call, but went right out to the barn, where Clark had doubtless returned to watch the new goats. As he passed through the kitchen, Martha was distractedly looking around with her "I know I put it down right there" expression and he paused.  
  
"I know I whipped that cream," she said, in answer to his raised eyebrow. "I could have sworn I put it in the refrigerator, but it's not there, and it's not in the freezer, and I..." He left her to it as he went in search of Clark to get him cleaned up for dinner.  
  
There was a loud bleating and Jonathan saw Clark, as he expected, with the lop-eared goats, who were happily surrounding him and vying for his attention, even while he admonished, "Don't eat it!" while patting whipping cream into the billys' beards, while they were industriously licking it off.   
  
*****  
  
AN: Yes, it's been a long time since I visited, longer still since I posted. The bunnies are stirring again.  
  
Yes, Perry is violating canon. But why on earth would I let that stop me now? 


	19. Once upon a rooftop

Nature is protective of its gift of life, or to put it less romantically, evolution is effective at keeping various forms out of the "sorry, dead end" file. Many species, therefore, give warning signals when they present a danger to others. Rattlesnakes rattle, cats hiss, dogs snarl, politicians open their mouths, and small children are suddenly silent.

So when Clark came in quietly instead of boisterously, and looked sheepish instead of immediately rushing to Martha and telling her all about what he'd been doing outside, she knew. "What happened, Clark?"

"Daddy's on the roof."

"Yes, he's up on the roof because he's fixing the tiles after the big storm. He's coming back down again."

"Really?"

"Really." Martha couldn't help but melt at how Clark was uneasy about any unexpected separation from his adored dad, and how he must have thought that Jonathan was going onto the roof for good. The idea of Jonathan taking on the role of a weather vane made her grin, and Clark, though not sure what the funny thing was, decided that it was probably going to be all right. "Were you worried that he wouldn't?"

Clark nodded a tiny bit.

"Well, he's coming down. I'm really, really sure." She gave Clark a big hug. "Just as sure as I am that there are cookies in the jar. Go see." Clark, reassured, opened the jar, helped himself, counting out loud.

"One, two, three cookies." He looked up at her. "Milk, please?" Martha opened the refrigerator. "Can I pour?" She helped him steady the bottle and the glass and settled him with a picture book about the planets while she continued to work through the month's accounts.

There was a sudden banging on the roof and a loud shout. "That's probably Daddy," Clark sagely told her. The shouts continued and she went outside to see what was happening.

The ladder was splintered on the ground and it looked as though Jonathan had just realized it. Clark followed and looked a bit sheepish again, but said, "Daddy's coming back down, don't worry, Mommy. I was going to put the ladder back because everything has a place, but it broke."

Martha shouted up that she'd drive over to the Peterson's and borrow theirs. As she bundled Clark into the car, she reminded herself of the other rule the Rosses had shared. "Always ask at least two more questions even after you think you know the answer."


	20. Reluctant Uncle Spikey

Spike the Bloody, master vampire, was getting sick of the sight of fields and didn't find the occasional pasture or orchard to be any relief. He groaned again as the turning his vampire instincts unfailingly told him would take him closer to civilization didn't.

As he finally approached a farm house, he shouted to an inner voice, "Sod that, I am _not_ going to stop and ask for directions!" Abashed, that inner voice suggested another possibility and he accepted it with a grin. "But I will stop for a bite to drink."

It was past midnight but there was a light on and he could see a small boy, maybe five or six, playing with a toy truck. He knocked lightly and the meals with wheels package went over to the door.

"Hello, my name's uhm, William, I'm a tourist here and got lost, don't you know, would you mind terribly if I used your phone for a minute? Can I come in?" _They fall for the toff accent every time. _The boy hesitated for a second, and then opened the screened door.

Spike liked the idea of an hors d'oeuvre but not fancy dining habits, so simply grabbed the boy, changed into game face, and bit down.

"Bloody hells, you broke my fangs!" His shout was muffled by his own hand, which had flown to his face. Then the boy reached up and pulled his hand away from his face, despite Spike's efforts to keep it there, and at the transformation. After a moment, he giggled, "Halloween was _last _month."

"Yeah, well, I do my own thing." Spike tried to press the tips of his fangs back on but they wouldn't go. "Now I can't even go bite a cow. Not that I'd have wanted to, anyway. You ever try to bite through leather? Well, actually, _you_ prob'ly could."

_Do they at least have Weetabix?_ He started to rummage, very quietly. _If this is what the sprog's like, I don't want to meet mummy and daddy. _Well, at least there was some leftover pie. He started eating while the kid stared up at him, then turned around, disappeared, and then reappeared before Spike could blink.

"Read to me?" Spike automatically reached for the book and the kid grabbed his free hand so hard that Spike couldn't extricate himself.

"_The Velveteen Rabbit_? Only if you promise not to cry. Drusilla, that's my girlfriend, she cries every time I read it to her."

"Daddy says that even though I'm a big boy, sometimes it's okay to cry." The kid sat them down at the table and Spike obediently started reading, only pausing for a second when the boy scrambled into his lap, eyes getting sleeping.

After the story ended, Spike himself started to doze, then woke up with a start. Almost 4:00, which meant the sun would definitely rise soon, and quite possibly even more formidable parents. Spike tried to put him on the floor and headed towards the door, but the kid woke up and grabbed him by the leg. "Don't you want to read some more?"

"Uh, absolutely love to, but unless Uncle Spikey is gone by the time that the big nasty sun comes up, he's going to end up as a pile of ashes on the nice, clean floor," Spike tried to explain.

"Please?" Big wide eyes and a smile that seemed to trust the universe itself. Spike hated to think what Drusilla would think about this kid.

"No, Uncle Spikey's got to go now."

"Make your funny face again, please?"

"It'd be a lot more impressive if you hadn't make me break my teeth," Spike muttered, but changed back into game face while the kid giggled again.

"Okay, bye bye." Spike rushed for the door and his car before the kid could change his mind.

He suspected that if he turned around to look, the kid would be waving.

* * *

A few days later, Jonathan asked Martha if she knew why Clark kept making such funny faces, "like the funny man who read to me." 

"No, sweetheart, I've no idea."

* * *

AN: This one actually originated before Marsters appeared on the show; I've just been a combination of incredibly busy and incredibly lazy. It's actually the Diehard's fault. Completely unprovoked, she said something about how it's a good thing Smallville didn't have vampires, since young!Clark would doubless break mirrors and invite everybody in. That made this little fic inevitable.


End file.
